The Complete Stories - Flannery O'Connor [97]
There was a moment in which she didn’t say a thing and the child in the window thought: she’s going to fly out of that chair and hit the tree.
“Well, I’m afraid you can’t do that,” she said, getting up suddenly, “The barn’s full of hay and I’m afraid of fire from your cigarettes.”
“We won’t smoke,” he said.
“I’m afraid you can’t spend the night in there just the same,” she repeated as if she were talking politely to a gangster.
“Well, we can camp out in the woods then,” the little boy said. “We brought our own blankets anyways. That’s what we got in theter suitcase. Come on.”
“In the woods!” she said. “Oh no! The woods are very dry now, I can’t have people smoking in my woods. You’ll have to camp out in the field, in this field here next to the house, where there aren’t any trees.”
“Where she can keep her eye on you,” the child said under her breath.
“Her woods,” the large boy muttered and got out of the hammock.
“We’ll sleep in the field,” Powell said but not particularly as if he were talking to her. “This afternoon I’m going to show them about this place.” The other two were already walking away and he got up and bounded after them and the two women sat with the black suitcase between them.
“Not no thank you, not no nothing,” Mrs. Pritchard remarked.
“They only played with what we gave them to eat,” Mrs. Cope said in a hurt voice.
Mrs. Pritchard suggested that they might not like soft drinks.
“They certainly looked hungry,” Mrs. Cope said.
About sunset they appeared out of the woods, dirty and sweating, and came to the back porch and asked for water. They did not ask for food but Mrs. Cope could tell that they wanted it. “All I have is some cold guinea,” she said. “Would you boys like some guinea and some sandwiches?”
“I wouldn’t eat nothing baldheaded like a guinea,” the little boy said. “I would eat a chicken or a turkey but not no guinea.”
“Dog wouldn’t eat one of them,” the large boy said. He had taken off his shirt and stuck it in the hack of his trousers like a tail. Mrs. Cope carefully avoided looking at him. The little boy had a cut on his arm.
“You boys haven’t been riding the horses when I asked you not to, have you?” she asked suspiciously and they all said, “No mam!” at once in loud enthusiastic voices like the Amens are said in country churches.
She went into the house and made them sandwiches and, while she did it, she held a conversation with them from inside the kitchen, asking what their fathers did and how many brothers and sisters they had and where they went to school. They answered in short explosive sentences, pushing each other’s shoulders and doubling up with laughter as if the questions had meanings she didn’t know about. “And do you have men teachers or lady teachers at your school?” she asked.
“Some of both and some you can’t tell which,” the big boy hooted.
“And does your mother work, Powell?” she asked quickly.
“She ast you does your mother work!” the little boy yelled. “His mind’s affected by them horses he only looked at,” he said. “His mother she works at a factory and leaves him to mind the rest of them only he don’t mind them much. Lemme tell you, lady, one time he locked his little brother in a box and set it on fire.”
“I’m sure Powell wouldn’t do a thing like that.” she said, coming out with the plate of sandwiches and setting it down on the step. They emptied the plate at once and she picked it up and stood holding it, looking at the sun which was going down in front of them, almost on top of the tree line. It was swollen and flame-colored and hung in a net of ragged cloud as if it might burn through any second and fall into the woods. From the upstairs window the child saw her shiver and catch both arms to her sides. “We have so much to be thankful for,” she said suddenly in a mournful marveling tone. “Do you boys thank God every night for all He’s done for you? Do you thank Him for everything?”
This put an instant hush over them. They bit into the sandwiches as if they had lost all taste for food.
“Do you?” she persisted.